


Gifts

by Capella (Caprina)



Series: Sea Longing Series [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprina/pseuds/Capella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before setting off on a long journey, Legolas needs to talk to Aragorn.</p><p>Written in the mid 2000's under the name Capella.<br/>A short sequel to 'Call of the Sea', 'Seascapes' and 'Deeper Waters', without which it will make little sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts

Minas Tirith in the sunshine was not a bad place to be.

Aragorn closed the great book and set his quill to one side, then tipped his head back and raised his face to the sun with a sigh of contentment. There was still much to be done, but nothing that would not keep until the meeting with his advisors on the morrow. Perhaps after the midday meal he would leave the kingdom to run itself for a while, and ride out of the city to enjoy the fresh air and soft warmth of early summer. Arwen was too far along with the child to join him, but company could be found easily enough amongst the young men of the court. He smiled to himself as the notion became a firm decision.

Satisfied with his morning’s labours, the king rose from the bench and crossed the wide path to the battlements. The stone was so thick here that he had to bend forward with his weight on both hands to peer down into the streets far below. A faint burst of laughter reached him and he twisted around to seek its origin. There, on the corner, surrounded by the bright splash of her wares, the tiny figure of a flower seller exchanged pleasantries with two miniature uniformed guards. The envy their carefree youth occasioned in him was no more than a brief flicker, rapidly dispelled. A day such as this was far too delightful for melancholy.

As Aragorn turned to take in the wider view of the city, something registered at the very edge of his vision. Was it not a flash of golden hair over a garment of green? He leaned out as far as he could, but there was nothing more to be seen. The rider - if rider there had been, and not merely a phantom conjured from his own imagination - had already passed through the gate and into the fifth level of the city.

Aragorn stared a moment longer before drawing away from the wall and flinging his arms back to stretch his shoulders. He shook his head at the folly of a grown man, and a king at that, who allowed his heart to double its pace at the fancied glimpse of a familiar form. It was not the first time he had caught sight of a yellow haired visitor from Rohan, or the leaf-coloured cloak of a passing lady, and felt the breath halt in his throat. He should know better. Barely three weeks had passed since Legolas’s departure from the city; what business would he have here now?

Trying to put the moment’s hope to one side, he moved to the table and picked up his book and silver water flask. There was time to find Arwen before the meal and tell her of his plans for the afternoon. He forced his thoughts back to the innocent joys of a ride in the sunshine, and headed towards the steps. 

A footman intercepted Aragorn in the corridor outside the royal chambers, as the king, washed and combed, was setting off to seek his wife. 

“My Lord.” The lad bowed low. 

“Yes, Inardil, what is it?”

“My Lord, Prince Legolas has arrived. He awaits Your Majesty in the blue chamber.”

Aragorn stared at the servant in amazement for a second before recovering his speech. “Thank you, Inardil, thank you,” he managed. “I shall speak to him there directly. Be so good as to inform the queen of the arrival of our visitor.”

“My Lord.” The footman turned smartly on his heel and hurried down the stairs. 

The king drew several deep breaths before following with no less urgency. 

Legolas stood in the middle of the chamber conversing softly with the serving boy who attended him there. The elf’s sleeves were pushed up and he was drying his long slender hands and wrists with a white towel. Aragorn watched from the open doorway, a full ten heartbeats passing before he could bring himself to speak.

“Prince Legolas, welcome. ‘Tis a great pleasure to see you again!” He strode into the room with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

“King Elessar, the pleasure is mine. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by arriving unannounced like this.” 

If Aragorn had believed that matters had changed between them, his body’s response to the elf’s smile was enough to convince him otherwise. For all their wise words of healing and putting the past behind, his heart still knew its place. 

He cleared his throat and nodded to the serving boy, who backed out slowly with the bowl and towels, his shining eyes on Legolas. As the door closed behind the lad, Aragorn moved closer to the elf.

“You know you will always be welcome here, and that your arrival could never be an inconvenience. But I wonder what it is that has brought you back so soon. I trust that nothing is wrong?”

Legolas shook his head, but his expression was serious. “Nothing,” he said, “except that Glóin’s condition worsens, and Gimli fears that he may not see his father again.”

“Ah.” There seemed little else to say.

“We will ride north with all speed,” the elf continued. “I must depart today, before sunset.”

Aragorn glanced around the room and noticed for the first time the sizeable pack that stood against the wall alongside the elven bow and quiver. He swallowed hard. 

“Of course you must make haste,” he said gravely. “I am only happy that you chose to start your journey here.”

Legolas gave him a long look and took a step towards him. It seemed he was about to utter something of importance, but was interrupted by the sound of the bell for the midday meal. 

Aragorn let out the breath he had not realised he was holding. “You will join us at table, I assume?” he asked.

“By your leave.” Legolas’s face relaxed into a smile. “Perhaps afterwards you could spare a few moments for us to speak together?” 

“Of course.” With his gut churning in anticipation, Aragorn was anything but hungry. How tempting to say, hang the meal, let us talk now; but that would never do. He consciously straightened his shoulders and extended an inviting arm towards the door. Legolas nodded to him, and they left the chamber together.

The elven prince was a popular visitor to the king’s court. Word must have got about of his arrival, since the hall was unusually full by the time Aragorn escorted him in, and there had evidently been some jockeying for places near the high table. All eyes were turned their way as a murmur of appreciation greeted their appearance.

If Legolas was aware of the stir he caused, he gave no sign of it. He paused to greet a few old friends with his usual modest charm, then bowed low before the queen. 

“My Lady.”

“Prince Legolas. How fortunate we are that you grace our halls once again.”

“You are as kind as you are noble, My Lady.”

His wife’s relationship with his former lover was a constant source of astonishment to Aragorn. The two had never grown close, but the genuine respect and admiration that each held for the other was clear to see. As the meal progressed, the pair talked amiably together and with those around them, pale slim hands sketching elegant gestures, musical voices ringing out in perfectly relaxed laughter. Aragorn watched, recalling his own struggle to control his jealous bitterness towards Imrahil, and wished for the umpteenth time that he could be more like an elf.

It was Arwen who drew the conversation to a close as the last of the plates were cleared away.

“No doubt you have matters to discuss with my husband, good Prince,” she said levelly, “whilst I must look to my children. I do hope you will find time to come up to the nursery before you leave. The girls would be overjoyed to see you.”

“And I to see them. I shall join you within the hour, although it may be something of a fleeting visit.” 

Arwen smiled her approval, then swept gracefully from the hall.

After a few minutes of necessary courtesies, Aragorn managed to extricate Legolas and himself from the crowd and lead the elf back to the blue chamber. With equal parts of apprehension and relief, he drew the door closed behind them and turned to face his friend.

“So, a long journey lies ahead of you,” he began.

“Aye, and an arduous one when embarked upon with a heavy heart,” the elf replied.

“You are in such a hurry that you may not stay one night in the city, yet here you are, delaying your start by a matter of hours. Pray tell me what your urgent business might be, before my curiosity consumes me.”

Legolas was clearly uninterested in playing such games. “Is it not enough that I wished to see you?” he asked gently, with a smile that brought Aragorn’s attempt at formality to an abrupt end. 

“Of course it is enough,” he said gruffly. “Forgive me.”

“Will you sit?” 

Obediently, he settled on a low couch and watched Legolas cross the room to his pack. As the elf bent to retrieve something from its depths he did not even pretend to look away. That long back, the lean thighs tensed in a crouch, the sweet curve of his rear beneath the tunic… Legolas must have noticed his flushed face when he straightened and turned with the small green package in his hand, but he made no comment. 

“In truth, I have something to give you, and something to ask of you,” the elf announced, perching lightly on the other end of the couch. “This first, I think.”

Aragorn took the object tentatively. It was strangely shaped and hard, a little larger than his hand, wrapped in a piece of soft suede the colour of Legolas’s boots. 

“Why…?” 

“I shall most likely be gone for a year or more,” Legolas said, “and so I shall miss the anniversary of your marriage, the naming of your child, your own birthday, and every other festival besides. If I need a reason to offer you a gift, think of it as a small token for all of those.”

The king raised his eyes at that, but he saw no levity in the elf’s face to match his words. With hands that shook slightly, he untied the simple leather thong and let the suede fall away.

“Oh…”

It was carved of some dense dark wood that he did not recognise, the figure of a fine horse in its prime. One forefoot was raised and the head was flawlessly captured as it tossed up and to the side. Pride and strength were in every line of its noble, muscular frame. 

It was not just any horse.

“Roheryn,” he said, his voice unsteady. The likeness was astonishing. “This is your own work.”

“Yes,” Legolas replied softly.

“And a timely gift indeed. We do well to remember my loyal steed as he once was; he grows old now, and I fear that his days are numbered.”

“I am well aware of it. Do you think I would pass a day in your city without visiting the stables to speak to my old friend?”

Aragorn stared at the carving through eyes that were distinctly damp. He ran a finger over the satiny polished nose, across the carefully roughened coat, down the sinuous flanks. 

Roheryn, horse of the lady. A gift from Arwen in a time when his life was simple, in the days before his heart was permanently sundered in two. The fact that Legolas knew of the great beast’s provenance only added to the poignancy of his offering.

“It is the most wonderful thing…” he began, and for a while could say no more. Legolas did not break the silence, but gazed at him with eyes that were quite sufficiently eloquent to threaten Aragorn’s composure.

“How can I thank you for such a unique and beautiful gift?” the king said at last.

“Do not thank me,” the elf said simply. “Just look at it, and know that you are in my thoughts.”

Aragorn nodded, clutching the carving with both hands. “You said that you have something to ask of me?” he said, certain that he must change the subject or lose his self control altogether.

“Yes.” Legolas clasped his fingers in his lap, unfolded them, clasped them again.

Instantly alert to this rare small show of anxiety, Aragorn sat a little straighter. “Please, tell me, what is it that you need from me?” he prompted.

There was a pause, then the elf began. “I am not making this expedition for Gimli’s sake alone,” he said. “Tragic as the circumstances are, they have arisen at a serendipitous moment in my life. It is time for me to make my own journey, to seek answers to the questions which trouble my heart.”

“And those questions are…?”

“I need to understand what has happened to me,” Legolas said, his eyes momentarily sliding away from Aragorn’s. “How it is that I can be bound to you, and yet…”

“… and yet love Imrahil as you do.” He forced himself to speak the words calmly.

“Yes.”

“Legolas, if it is my blessing you seek, you do not need to ask for it. I have said and done unforgivable things to you in the past, but with Eru’s help those days are behind us. I only wish you joy, my friend.” How much stronger he had grown. A month ago he could not have expressed such a sentiment, but now, for all his aching sadness, he knew that he spoke the truth.

“Your words are a soothing balm to my spirit, and I thank you for them. However, it is not only your blessing that I seek.”

“Then ask.”

The elf looked down at his hands, then up at Aragorn once more. “Enlightenment is not always to be found within,” he said slowly, “and if I am to look elsewhere, I must explain the situation before opinion can be sought as to its outcome. The tale, however, is not mine alone to tell.”

Bright blue eyes now held his own, and the fair face carried a mute supplication. Legolas was asking his permission to share the pain, to tell of his own shameful part in the events that had brought them to this. Aragorn bit his lip and turned his head to the side. How many times was it possible for a man’s heart to break?

“You intend to travel to Rivendell?” he said at last.

“Aye, eventually. Until we reach Erebor I cannot be certain of the timing, but I hope to spend at least some of the winter with my father, then to cross the mountains in the spring.”

Thranduil. Elladan and Elrohir. Lord Celeborn himself, if the fading of his days had not removed him too completely from the world. Where else would Legolas look for his reassurance? And who was to say that these wise ones did not already know the truth, and that they waited only for Legolas to speak of it? 

After all that he had done to his friend, his love, he could hardly deny him the chance to find some peace.

“I have trusted my life to you more times than I can count,” Aragorn said quietly, reaching to cover the elf’s hand with his own. “How could I not trust you with this? Speak freely as you choose, and may you hear the answers you long for.”

Legolas leaned towards him and turned his hand to wrap his fingers loosely around Aragorn’s. The king sat rigid, terribly aware of the contact and the whisper of the elf’s spirit that came to him through it.

“You are certain? I would never wish to cause you anxiety,” the elf said earnestly.

“Can you not sense the truth of my heart?”

Aragorn felt it then, the feather-light touch of another consciousness meeting his. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his love, his desire to make amends, his hope for the elf’s happiness. 

When he opened his eyes once more, he saw that his friend’s face was radiant.

“Thank you,” Legolas murmured. “You cannot know what this means to me.”

Aragorn thought back to the long night he had spent weeping in his wife’s arms, only a matter of weeks ago. How difficult the confession had been, but how great the relief after. 

“Perhaps I can imagine,” he replied.

They sat for a while in silence, their hands still linked. As was so often the case when alone with Legolas, Aragorn found that there were too many things to be said, yet too few words with which to say them.

“May I ride a little way with you when you leave?” he asked at last. “I had planned to abandon my duties and take a horse out this afternoon.”

“That would be wonderful.” Legolas gently withdrew his hand before rising smoothly to his feet. “But first, the nursery. Far be it from me to keep a lady waiting.”

 

********************

 

By unspoken consent they drew their horses to a standstill at the top of a long, low hillock some two hours distant from Minas Tirith. The king dismounted slowly and looked across at Legolas. The elf’s hair and skin were vivid in the long golden light of evening. To Aragorn’s eyes, he had never looked more beautiful. 

“Do you remember our first meeting in the Greenwood?” said Legolas suddenly, coming to stand before him at arm’s length. “And how I walked with you to the end of the path when you set out again on your journey? Then it was you who went on into an uncertain future, and I who turned back, disconsolate.”

“Remember it? How can you ask?” Aragorn retorted, then added softly, “I loved you, even then.”

“As I loved you.” The elf’s voice was full of sweet sadness. “Our destiny drew us together, surely.”

“Aye, and we follow it even now, dutiful to the end. And still it makes the pain of parting from you no easier to bear.”

“Nor could it ever do so.”

The embrace felt so natural, so right. Legolas’s strong arms around him, the elf’s body warm against his own, soft hair and supple leather under his fingers. Aragorn’s pulse raced and the blood sang in his veins. How easy it would be, here, so far from the city with none to see or know…

It took all the force of his will to step back, to drop his hands to his sides. 

“Thank you for your beautiful gift.” He spoke the words with difficulty. “It will be a consolation to me in your absence.”

“Your gift to me is far greater,” Legolas replied, with a smile that made the king’s heart clench painfully in his chest. “Farewell, Aragorn. May your days be happy.”

“And may your spirit find the peace you deserve. Travel safely in the Lady’s sight. Farewell.”

Aragorn stood watching long after the elf had vanished over the next ridge. The air grew chill as he gazed into the green distance, wondering how it was that a man could be so torn and yet survive. 

Only the impatient snorting of his horse, tired of cropping the grass at his side, roused him from his melancholy. A glance at the sky brought him back to his senses. The hour was drawing late; the children would soon be abed, and he would have to make haste if he wished to bid them goodnight.

With a word to his good steed he hauled himself into the saddle and turned to the south east. Then, over lands gilded by the setting sun and darkened by the lengthening shadows of the mountains, the king rode hard for his home.


End file.
